Click

Clack

No distractions

 

Paper, a ding

Return it back

 

When I was eight I was given a typewriter

Told it was Santa Claus’s

That I was chosen

 

I typed every word I knew

Even the ones I wasn’t supposed to say

 

I felt dignified

An eight-year-old Roald Dahl

Writing the next book that would change the world

 

The ribbon broke a few days later

Nowhere to get it fixed

 

Twelve years later I yearn for one again

A sense of importance that lies beneath

Taking me back to when typing was a privilege

Not a necessity